


Deep Down, Where Your Fight Is Waiting

by yodasyoyo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allison Argent & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Allison's POV, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, BAMF Allison, BAMF Stiles, F/F, Happy Endings For Everyone, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Monster of the Week, Oblivious Stiles, POV Outsider on Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Pining Stiles, Tattooed Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 08:17:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8197532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yodasyoyo/pseuds/yodasyoyo
Summary: “Stiles?”“I’m eating Cheetos,” he mumbles thickly. “It’s a stress thing. A heartache thing. You want one?”“Oh my God, you just brushed your teeth.”-Allison never planned to return to Beacon Hills once they resurrected her, but when has her life ever gone to plan?





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, this story is a canon AU where Stiles and Lydia resurrect Allison about 2 months after she dies. It became a chance for me to exlore a lot of things that I've always wanted to write but never been brave enough too. Specifically, Stiles and Allison's friendship, writing Sterek from an outsider POV, Allydia, and just Allison generally because she's such a kick ass character.
> 
> Fair warning, it starts out a little angsty with Allison waking up in her own coffin post resurrection a la Season 6 BtVS. Also, while there is quite a lot of Sterek in this fic (not at the beginning but as it progresses, more and more, trust me), it is, at heart, a chance to explore Stiles and Allison's friendship, because I always felt like the show really let us down on that score.
> 
> Thanks to mountain_ash for the speedy beta.

Allison’s slammed into consciousness, stale air filling her lungs full to bursting, and then she’s gasping, gulping down huge breaths, one after the other and she just can’t stop. Panic overwhelms her. She can’t see, there’s no light, not a sliver, just darkness so thick and impenetrable it feels like a living thing, crawling down her throat to choke her. She reaches out a hand, and all her joints protest, creaking like rusted hinges. And the air, the air is fetid, thick with the stench of decay. Her heart pounds in her ears, her limbs are numb, tingling, like she’s been sitting in an awkward position for too long and the blood is only just beginning to return.

She reaches out a hand again to get some sense of where she is, of what this place is. Her palm presses against soft, slippery material, and behind that, something solid. She feels about slowly, aching, trying to map the place as best she can. Gradually her brain starts to piece together what she’s experiencing. She’s lying on her back, in a long narrow space, close and dark, and the smell, _oh god,_ the smell. Just like that, memories rush back in a flood. The Oni, the Nogitsune, the big battle, bleeding out in Scott’s arms, knowing she was going to die- which means she’s- which means this is- she opens her mouth to scream, and that’s when the lid lifts.

Lydia and Stiles are bent over her, their eyes wide and anxious. Dirt clings to their hair, their clothes, their hands, their faces. There’s a massive smear of mud down Lydia’s cheek.

“Shit,” breathes Stiles.

Allison sits up slowly, her body still stiff and refusing to cooperate. She looks about herself and takes in the coffin, the massive hole in the ground, the _goddamn_ headstone with her name on it, the shovels, the collection of bowls, spell ingredients and occult symbols that the litter the floor. There’s a residual crackle of energy in the air, and the weird smell of ozone that she knows comes from magic. She catches Stiles’ eye and he steps back and looks away, gaunt and guilty.

Lydia recovers first. “We did it!” She launches herself at Allison clutching her to her chest. “Oh my god, we did it, you’re back.” Allison can barely lift her arms to hug her. Every part of her aches and now the initial adrenaline rush has worn off she’s shaking, trembling violently, although whether it’s from the cold or from shock she can’t begin to tell. Lydia leans back and cups Allison’s face in her hands. “You’re back, I can’t believe you’re back. I missed you,” she says, fiercely, “I missed you so much.” Her grip is tight, it hurts, like she’s afraid if she doesn’t hold on to her she’ll disappear. Allison winces.

Lydia let's go, and grabs her hands instead. She feels so warm, so alive, and Allison leans into her, chasing body heat, still trembling furiously.

“You’re back,” Lydia chants. “You’re back, you’re back, and it’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”

Allison looks down at where their fingers are tangled together. Lydia’s are so grubby, dirt worked into every crease and furrow, like she dug Allison out of her grave with her bare hands. Thick mud caked under broken fingernails.

Lydia doesn’t seem to notice.

 

-

 

Allison leaves Beacon Hills two nights after they resurrect her and doesn’t return. She just wants to escape and so she does, first to Oregon with her dad, and then eventually to college in Pennsylvania.

Once there she buries herself in her studies. She’s civil to her roommate, attends her classes and works hard. She can’t seem to make friends though. She isn’t sure how to do that anymore. After everything she’s seen, after everything that’s happened, she can’t fake being normal, it’s too exhausting. What normal person sleeps with a knife under their pillow? Or attends lectures with a miniature crossbow concealed in their bag? She isn’t meant for lectures and sororities and parties. She’s supposed to be part of a bigger picture. She’s supposed to be changing the way the Argent’s do things, protecting people, revolutionising an archaic institution from the inside, but since coming back from the dead, she just can’t bring herself to do it. So she’s caught, stuck in limbo, unable to move forward, and unwilling to go back. She spent two months in a grave, and now she’s lost the knack for being alive.

The only person she keeps in touch with is Lydia, or, more accurately, Lydia keeps in touch with her. Twice a week Lydia skypes her from a tiny dorm room at MIT and tells her about her course, the pack, life in Boston, gossip from Beacon Hills. Allison doesn’t talk much, just listens and watches her, mesmerized by the way Lydia’s hair gleams, her dimpled smile, how self assured she is, the way her eyes seem to see right through Allison into her soul, stripping it bare.

In the aftermath of the last couple of years, Allison doesn’t feel like she knows herself at all, but it’s comforting to think that someone might. That _Lydia_ might.

If Lydia sees the guilt and the fear that drive her now though, she doesn’t say anything, and Allison’s not sure what to do with that. Lydia’s never held back before, has always been blunt, almost to the point of rudeness. Maybe she thinks Allison’s too fragile, that if she pushes hard, applies too much pressure, she’ll shatter like glass, and this time, there won’t be any way to pick up the pieces.

 

-

 

She’s nearing the end of her freshman year when the other shoe finally drops. It’s ten o’clock on a Tuesday and they’re skyping each other, Lydia’s just spent ten minutes talking about the Hodge conjecture, and how she thinks she might be able to solve it, given time. Allison likes listening to her talk about math, enjoys letting it wash over her, even if she can’t always follow everything. She’s struggled to make friends since starting college. Her roommate seems perfectly nice, friendly even, but Allison’s in the habit of holding everyone at arm’s length, for their sake as much as her own. With Lydia though, it’s always been different. From the first time they met, they saw each other exactly as they were, the good and the bad, and chose each other anyway. Kindred spirits, pretty and popular with spines of steel, or at least Allison used to be, before. Even now though, with Lydia, she never has to be anything other than exactly what she is.

“They need you back in Beacon Hills,” Lydia says apropos of nothing.

“No,” she spits, fear taking refuge in an anger so immediate, so visceral, she’s shaking.

“It’s for a magical ritual that Stiles has been researching to destroy the Nemeton and end it’s influence over Beacon Hills.”

“ _No_.” Allison tries to swallow the bile that’s rising in her throat, but it just sticks, burns, hurts.

“It will save a lot of people’s lives.”

“I’m not going back _there_.”

Lydia inclines her head and surveys her critically, “‘We protect those who cannot protect themselves’. Was that supposed to be you? Or did I make a mistake?”

Allison slams the lid of the laptop shut, hands trembling, then turns her head and retches into the wastebasket by her desk.

 

-

 

It’s two weeks before they speak again. Two weeks of sleepless nights and berating herself for not being stronger, better- for not being over this already. Fear makes her weak, and she hates it, can’t resist picking over the bones of the conversation again and again, until she can’t think about anything else. In the end she forces herself to Skype Lydia on principle.

“Why me?” she asks, as soon as Lydia answers her call.

“They need your blood for the spell.”

She grimaces. “So, I’ll send them some. I don’t have to go.”

Lydia arches an eyebrow. “That won’t work. They need fresh blood. Blood from someone who’s been resurrected.”

Allison stills. “Well, what about Peter?”

“Dead. A year ago.”

“Oh.”

There’s silence. Lydia busies herself writing notes, textbooks spread out neatly in front of her. They do this sometimes, sit there in companionable silence, reading, or working on their latest project for college, content in each other’s company. Normally it calms Allison’s jangled nerves, she can’t settle to it tonight.

“ _If_ I go-” she begins.

Lydia glances up, rests her pencil against her lip. “Stiles can drive you.”

“Stiles-”

“He’s at Columbia, remember? He’s driving back anyway to complete the ritual, he can pick you up.”

“Or we could fly.”

“He doesn’t fly, not since the harpies.”

“Harpies? What has that got to do with getting on an airplane?”

Lydia looks back down at her work, reads over a sentence and makes a careful amendment. “The harpies were _on_ the plane, masquerading as flight attendants. Look, it’s a long story, irrelevant really. The important thing is, Stiles hasn’t boarded a plane since.”

 _“I_ could take a plane though.”

“You could,” She taps the pencil against her lips and gives Allison an appraising look. “It would be good for you to see him, though. Good for both of you.”

Allison hasn’t spoken to Stiles since he brought her back from the dead. She hasn’t spoken to any of them. She doesn’t want to go, doesn’t want to sit awkwardly with him in a car for the best part of a week. She definitely doesn’t want to return to Beacon Hills, she already visits that place enough in her nightmares.

She made a promise to herself, though, to be a better person. Braver. Less afraid. She promised to protect people, she _wants_ to be strong. Maybe if she can make herself do this, she will be.

“Fine,” she sighs. “I’ll do it.”

Lydia smiles, soft and warm. “Thank-you. I knew I could count on you.”

 

-

 

Two weeks later Stiles arrives bright and early to pick her up. He texts to say he’s parked up outside her building. She doesn’t invite him in. Instead, she drags her suitcase and a duffle bag down three flights of stairs and out the front door to find him leaning up against his old blue jeep, scowling down at his phone.

He’s different in a way that she can’t quite pinpoint, no one big thing, but lots of little ones that have changed the picture of him she’s been carrying in her mind. His hair is longer, shoulders maybe a little broader. He still wears his obligatory graphic tee and plaid, but his sleeves are rolled up to reveal strong forearms decorated with dark, intricate tattoos that he must have gotten since she left. It’s the way he holds himself though, she decides, that’s the biggest difference. She remembers him being almost cartoonish, frenetic, like an over-wound clockwork toy. Standing there now he seems calmer, more controlled, like he’s finally at ease in his own skin.

He glances up and notices her, levers himself up off the jeep and straightens. He slips his phone back into his back pocket and folds his arms.

“Hey.” The corner of his mouth ticks up, but his shoulders are a solid line of tension that give him away. He’s uneasy too.

“Hi.”

They stand there for a long moment.

Stiles blows out a sigh, and shifts from foot to foot, and in that moment, she sees him again, the guy she used to know. “Well, so, this is kinda awkward, but it’s- uh- really good to see you.”

“You too.”

He rubs his neck and shoots her rueful smile, boyish and oddly charming. “Shall we put your stuff in the jeep?” He jerks his thumb, gesturing behind him to his car.

She nods, and follows him round to the back of the jeep. When he opens it up there’s plenty of his luggage already in there, but she hasn’t brought much with her. Years of travelling about with her dad mean she’s used to packing light, and besides, she’s only going to be in Beacon Hills for a few days. Once the ritual is done she intends to travel straight back to college to try and pick up a job for the summer. This is just a test, this is just to prove to herself that she _can._

Stiles raises an eyebrow at the tiny amount of luggage, but doesn’t pass comment. They play tetris with the bags for a bit until everything fits securely and then he gestures for her to get in the passenger seat.

“I’m not going to lie, the 80 isn’t the prettiest road, but it’s the quickest. I’ll drive the first leg,” he says, “You can take over after we’ve stopped for lunch, okay?”

“Sure.”

He climbs into his seat and buckles his seatbelt, then eyes her askance. “You want to listen to some music?”

She shrugs.

“Here.” He hands her his phone. “I have Spotify. There are about a million playlists, pick something you like, or not, it’s up to you.”

He twists the key in the ignition and the Jeep’s engine grumbles to life. Allison scrolls through his playlists. His taste in music is eclectic. Everything from metal to hip hop to opera, and a thousand and one things in between. She doesn’t know where to start. A playlist called  ‘Sunshine and Puppies: A Scott Special’, catches her eye. It’s mainly Blink182 and Linkin’ Park, although there’s also _Who Let the Dogs Out_ and _Puppy Love_ mixed in for good measure. Allison bites her lip against a smile, but doesn’t select it.

In the end she chooses one called ‘Stiles’ Awesome Driving Playlist’, partly because of the name and partly because when she checks it out, it’s mainly 70’s and 80’s rock and pop.

As Bat out of Hell blasts out of the speakers, Stiles looks at her in surprise. “Kinda retro, isn’t it?”

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s my playlist of course _I_ like it. I just meant it was an unexpected choice for _you_.” He drums his fingers against the steering wheel, and Allison turns her head to look out of the window.

Her dad used to listen to this stuff in the car, T-Rex, Whitesnake, Duran Duran, The Who. They travelled a lot when she was a kid, and he always had the radio on and they’d sing along together. She knew all the words back then, she still does. It’s a good childhood memory. One of the few she has left.

 

-

 

They don’t talk much, which is strange. The Stiles she remembers was always talking, always active, a restless ball of perpetual energy who talked constantly, but said very little. Maybe he isn’t that person any more, or maybe he isn’t that person around _her_. He focuses with single minded determination on driving, occasionally singing along under his breath to whatever’s blasting out from the speakers. Allison sits quietly next to him, watching the miles of road slip quietly by.

After a couple of hours they stop at a diner for lunch. Once they’ve ordered and their waitress leaves, silence descends between them once more. Without the distraction of driving and the music though, Stiles seems more uncomfortable. He fiddles with the salt cellar, takes all the little packets of sugar and sweetener out of the dish they sit in and carefully places them into a neat line, before he finally picks up a napkin and starts to shred it into tiny pieces.

“What’s your major?” he asks eventually. “If Lydia told me I don’t remember.”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Me either.” His long fingers keep working, head dipped down watching in concentration as he methodically creates a little pile of confetti. “Nothing seems big enough. Nothing seems to fit. We’ve been through all this shit. We’ve _seen_ things, _done_ things. I’m supposed to go from that to- English lit, football on the quad and eight AM lectures? I can’t get my head around it, y’know?”

She does know. She knows so profoundly that she wants to scream with it. “I don’t think anyone expects _you_ to play football or turn up to an eight AM lecture,” she jokes.

He looks up at her in surprise, then grins and shakes his head, “Maybe you’re right.”

The waitress arrives then with their food, and they both forget about conversation in favor of eating. When they’ve finished, Stiles gets the check and goes out to the car. Allison decides to use the bathroom before they leave. When she finally meets Stiles out front, he’s standing by his car with his back to her, talking on the phone.

“Four days. Three, really, when you think about it. Then I’ll be back.” His free hand balls into a fist. “Look, we’ll talk about it when I get back, okay? I promise.” He sighs. “Yes.” A pause. “It isn’t that dangerous. It isn’t. Honestly. Would _I_ do anything dangerous?”

Allison snorts, she can’t help herself, and Stiles jerks, a full body flail, as he wheels round to look at her.

“Sorry,” he mouths silently, “won’t be long.” She nods and he fishes into his pocket and tosses her the car keys. “Okay, maybe _that_ was dangerous,” he concedes to whoever’s on the phone, “but apart from that.”

Allison walks round to the driver’s side door and opens it.

Stiles drums his fingers on the roof of the car. “Yes. Okay. Apart from that. Okay, okay, but apart from _those_ times. Look, why do you even care, anyway?” There’s a pause, Stiles sighs. “Fine. Hang up then, loser,” he mutters, scowling as he slips his phone back in his pocket.

Allison gets into the car and spends a few moments adjusting the seat and the mirrors to suit her. “Trouble?” she asks lightly, as Stiles settles next to her in the passenger seat.

“Nothing I can do anything about, so-” he shrugs, as she pulls away.

They’re quiet for a mile or so. Allison wants to ask more about the conversation she just overheard, to check just what’s involved in this ritual, but nothing about Stiles’ body language invites a question. He’s slumped against the passenger side window his mouth a thin line, saying nothing, but brooding loudly.

The Stiles she remembers didn’t know how to do magic, not really. Except, that can’t be true, after all, apparently he knew enough to bring her back from the _dead_. That train of thought isn’t a good one, it takes her back to Beacon Hills, to the night she died, to the dark dank space and festering smell when she finally woke up. Every muscle in her body tenses, her jaw aches her teeth are clenched so hard. _It’s just a thing,_ she thinks to herself, _a terrible thing, sure, but you need to get over it. Move on. Lighten up._ _Be better._

“Are you okay?” Stiles asks.

Allison starts, “Yeah- of course. Just thinking. That’s all.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t sound convinced.

“Music?” Allison suggests.

“If you want.” He gets out his phone. “Same as before?”

She shrugs, “Passenger’s choice.”

“Okay.”

They listen to the Hamilton soundtrack on repeat for the rest of the afternoon. Allison knows it a little, but not well. Two hours in though, and she starts to get into it. When she finally sings along to Yorktown under her breath, Stiles turns to gape at her. A grin spreads wide across his face, and she smiles back, automatically, like she’s finally remembered how.

 

-

 

They reach Iowa City just before ten o’clock that evening, pick up some chinese takeout and find a motel. They get a twin room. They already discussed it in the car, it’s cheaper and they’re both poor college students. Maybe sharing a room should be awkward, Stiles is a guy, and she hasn’t spent time with him in a while, but he’s also a friend, of sorts, and anyway, she knows they don’t feel _that_ way about each other.

Their room is painted a non-descript beige. It has shabby curtains with weird geometric shapes on and a pale, uninteresting still life hanging on the wall. There’s an ancient TV on a dresser opposite their beds. They heft their bags into the room, and Allison places the takeout on the dresser until they have time to get to it. Her legs still feel stiff, back sore from sitting in the car for such a long time, her mind numb with tiredness.

Stiles lays claim to the bed nearest the bathroom, he throws himself on it noisily. “Oh my god, this mattress is like a rock. Ugh.”

Allison sits down on the bed nearest the door and bounces gently, testing it. “It’s not so bad.”

“You say that now,” he grumbles, “wait until you wake up in the morning with a crick in your neck and permanent spinal damage.”

Allison rolls her eyes and makes her way to the bathroom. When she gets back Stiles is sprawled out on his bed watching an old black and white movie on the TV, his mouth full of egg roll. She sits cross legged at the end of her own bed, and makes a start on her orange chicken.

She tries to get a handle on what’s happening in the film, but aside from the fact that it seems very dramatic, she can’t make much sense of it. Stiles seems to be enjoying it though, he keeps snorting with laughter and passing comment.

“Look at how they do that-” he says at one point, gesturing toward the screen where a couple are embracing. “Literally, no-one in the history of the world has ever hugged like that in real life. Ever.”

Allison huffs in amusement.

“Oh Cecil,” he mimics, “I love you, now kiss me! God, that looks almost painful, like she’s stuck her face to the end of a vacuum cleaner. Now, hug, that’s right, smoosh your faces together side by side, so you’re both facing the camera and stare tragically into the distance while also trying to carry out a conversation at _the same time,_ Jesus.”

His phone buzzes. He fishes it from his pocket, looks down at it and scowls, swiping to accept the call. “So you’re talking to me again, are you?” he snaps.

Allison sighs. She should probably give him some privacy, besides, she’s nearly finished with her food anyway. She signals to Stiles that she’s leaving, and then slips out the door. She has half an idea to find a vending machine and stock up on some snacks for tomorrow. Just then, her own phone buzzes and she looks down to see a text from Lydia.

_ > How is it? _

She pauses for a moment, considering how to answer her.

< Weird, but okay

_ > That sounds about right _

_ > Where are you? _

< Motel 8 in Iowa City

_ > Ugh. Motels are the worst. I hate them. _

Given what happened the last time she and Lydia were in a motel together, that’s understandable. Allison suppresses a shudder. She’s wandered far enough to find a vending machine, and ends up getting two packs of twizzlers, some milk duds and a packet of jolly ranchers before finally checking her phone again.

_ > Keep an eye on Stiles _

Allison frowns.

< What do you mean?

_ > Just don’t let him do anything stupid _

< ???

< Like what?

> _You’ll know._

Allison taps her finger idly against her phone and makes her way slowly back to the room feeling unsettled. The afternoon spent singing along in the car with Stiles suddenly feels a million miles away. She’s allowed herself to be lulled into a false sense of security. Whatever Lydia expects of her, whatever crazy and probably dangerous thing Stiles is about to embroil himself in, she isn’t ready for it. She isn’t ready for any of it. The thought makes her feel sick to her stomach.

When she reaches the door and opens it, Stiles is still on the phone, his words tumbling out of him one on top of the other. “I’ll need the trailing white monkshood, Deaton should have some. I don’t need to tell you it’s toxic to weres so don’t go opening the container, okay? I’ll also need a harpy feather, there’s some in the drawer in my bedroom. I kept a few back after the incident we do not speak of. Also incubus venom, that’s not in my desk drawer-” He cocks his head, listening. “Don’t worry about it, I ordered some on e-bay.”

Allison raises an eyebrow.

“No. No. You cannot buy incubus venom on e-bay.”  Stiles flails wildly. “It was a joke, okay. I made a joke, _Jesus_!” He holds the phone out in front of himself and scowls. “Again, you hung up again! Motherfu- oh, Allison, you’re back!”

She tips her candy onto her bed. “Incubus venom?”

“For the ritual,” he says, easily.

“Uh huh. Sounds complicated.”

“Not complicated, not really. It just has to be done right.”

“Ominous, then.”

He shrugs. “I’m making it sound worse than it is.” He stares down at his phone, expression clouding.

“So, was that Scott?”

“No.” He shakes his head, mouth tightening into a frown. “Derek.”

“Ah.”

Her relationship with Derek is, well, it’s complicated. They’ve never exactly gelled for obvious reasons. Their families histories are entwined together in the worst possible way, and while, toward the end of her time in Beacon Hills, they found themselves fighting on the same side, they’ve never been friends. He’s a living reminder of how twisted and corrupt her family became. Not to mention his role in the death of her mom. She knows that he didn’t kill her. He turned her. Accidentally. It was her mother’s choice to end her life, but it still stings. She can’t think about Derek without feeling guilty and angry and ashamed.

She doesn’t push Stiles any further about the ritual, or try to find out what he’s planning. They have another three or four days together, depending how the journey pans out, and they’ll be plenty of time to question him. Probably. At least that’s what she tells herself.

Stiles disappears into the bathroom to shower and get ready for bed and Allison takes the time to unpack the little she needs from her bag. She slips a knife under her pillow, long and wicked, but secure in it’s leather sheath. Then she tests the windows and doors to make sure they’re locked and secure. Satisfied, she sits on the bed and surfs the internet on her phone. When Stiles gets out, she has a shower, turns the water temperature up high and stands under it, letting the water drum against her skin until she’s red and raw.

 

-

 

She finds it difficult to get to sleep that night. She finds it difficult to get to sleep every night, but especially in a strange room, lying in a strange bed, with the specter of returning to Beacon Hills looming large over her. She can’t stop her mind drifting, thoughts wandering to places and things she’d rather forget. The night she saw Scott transform into a werewolf for the first time at the school dance. Her Aunt Kate dragging her into dark tunnels to show her Derek, strung up and tortured. Stiles’ face when he was possessed by the Nogitsune, pale, twisted and cruel. Waking up in a coffin surrounded by the stench of decay. She reaches a hand under her pillow, wraps her fingers around the hilt of her knife, and allows it to anchor her.

She slips from unsettled thoughts into nightmarish dreams. Her mother as a werewolf, eyes flashing red, alpha form as twisted and grotesque as Peter’s ever was, chasing her through the streets until she trips and falls. The ground opening up beneath her feet, and swallowing her whole, fingers scrabbling at the dirt, lungs burning with every breath. She’s trapped, buried alive, and she can’t call for help, can’t get out.

“Hey! Allison. Allison.” She can hear someone calling her, but when she opens her mouth to speak no words come out. “Allison. Wake up.” The voice is closer, louder, concerned.

Her eyes fly open to find a figure leaning over her in the dark. Her knife is in her hand, drawn and at their throat before she’s even aware what she’s doing. And then, just as quickly she’s thrown back onto her bed, like some invisible hand has pushed her, hard, knocking the breath out of her. The air glows electric blue, crackling with power, and there’s the ozone taste of magic in the air.

She blinks a couple of times, trying to process where she is and what’s happening. She was dreaming, she realizes that now, and she- _oh god_ \- she just attacked Stiles.

“Sorry,” she croaks, looking up at him. The dim blue glow illuminating the room is coming from his tattoos which are lit up like lights on a christmas tree. He reaches out and flicks on the bedside lamp.

“What the actual fuck, Allison? Seriously? You sleep with a knife under your pillow? A knife?” he gestures wildly at it.

“Are you okay?” she asks, sitting up.

“Yeah, I mean- no!” He frowns at her. “What the hell?”

She grimaces, “I was having a nightmare.”

“I know. That’s why I was trying to wake you.”

“I didn’t get you, did I?”

His hand goes to his throat almost reflexively, “No, but that’s not the point. Hey, here’s a question. I think I may have mentioned it already. Why do you have a great big fuck off knife under your pillow?”

Allison’s head thuds back against the headboard. “Protection,” she says, eventually.

“From what?” he flails, outraged. “I’m the only one here!”

She breathes carefully, in, out, in, out, trying to settle herself. “I just- I need to be prepared, okay? You _know_ the sort of things that’re out there. I can’t- I can’t sleep unless I know I can protect myself if I need to. I can’t, Stiles.” Her voice is thick, raw, it wavers on the edge of breaking, but she is not going to cry. She is _not._

Stiles stares at her a long moment, gradually his expression softens. “Pennsylvania cannot be _that_ bad,” he quips, sinking down onto the bed next to her.

Allison can feel tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, but she swallows them back. “I’m sorry,” she mutters, again. “I didn’t mean to- I would never…”

“I know. God, I know. Just, warn a guy next time. At least let me know that you’re all armed and dangerous. That way, if I have to wake you I’ll do it from six feet away, with a large stick. In full body armor.”

She nods, not trusting herself to speak.

“Okay.” He pats on the leg and offers her a tentative smile.  “Well, I was kinda worried about this whole road trip idea of Lydia’s, but I guess this is as bad as it can get. You attacked me with a knife and I survived.”

She turns her head sharply, to look at him. “You were worried?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Why?” It hurts to hear, even though she’s been apprehensive too.

He sighs and looks away, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Because we haven’t seen each other in a long time, and that makes things kinda awkward, I guess. And besides,” his shoulders dip, “You _died_ because of me. I wouldn’t be surprised if you never wanted to speak to me again.”

Her mouth falls open in shock. “No. _No_ . I didn’t die because of you.” She reaches out and grips his hand as tight as she can. “But I am _alive_ because of you.”

He looks across at her then, his eyes wide and a little wet, then down again at where she’s clasping his hand. He inhales shakily. “Ally-”

“I’m alive because of _you,_ ” she repeats, firmly. “Don’t forget that.”

She never thought before how it must seem to him. He brought her back to life, and then she disappeared and never thought to get in contact, too weighed down by her past and scared of her future. Perhaps, all this time, he thought she’d left because of him.

She lets go of his hand and gets up, pours them both a glass of water and then they settle back down in their respective beds. It takes her a long time to get to sleep after that.

A long, long time.

 

-

 

The next morning they struggle out of bed early, grumbling and sleep deprived, check out, grab a couple of breakfast burritos and then head straight for the car. Allison takes the first stretch. They drive for ages through countryside that’s flat and featureless except for scrubby trees, grey towns and the occasional truck stop. Stiles spends most of the morning asleep, head thrown back against the headrest in a way that looks incredibly uncomfortable. He snores gently and mutters to himself occasionally, although nothing Allison can make out.

They finally stop at a roadside diner around one o’clock, and settle into a booth that has dark red vinyl seats and a formica table. A waitress takes their order, and, when she leaves, Allison turns to Stiles and says, “So, this ritual. How dangerous is it?”

“I told you, not that dangerous.”

“Derek seems to think it might be.”

“Yeah, well, Derek worries too much,” Stiles scoffs.

“And you need my blood?”

He nods. “It sounds worse than it is.”

“So you say.”

“Trust me. I’m the most squeamish person I know. If it was that bad, I wouldn’t be able to do it.”

“I remember. You couldn’t even watch Scott get a tattoo without fainting.”

“He told you about that, huh?”

“He may have mentioned it once or twice.”

Stiles huffs out a beleaguered sigh. “Bro code, dude. I’m going to have words with him when I see him. So many words.”

“How did you get those done, when you couldn’t even watch Scott?” She gestures to the tattoos that barely peek out beneath the cuffs of his plaid shirt.

“Well, Allison, I’m so glad you asked. I gritted my teeth, put on my big boy pants, strode into the tattoo parlor, which in this case was actually the local veterinary clinic, and took it like a man.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, I collapsed in a dead faint about three seconds in. I don’t like needles! Sue me! It’s not like I have to be _conscious_ to get tattooed.”

Allison laughs and Stiles grins.

“So are they linked to your magic somehow?”

“Yes. Somehow.”

“You don’t know?”

“No, I do. I just-” he shifts awkwardly. “They help me focus my magic, channel it better so that I have more control.”

“When did you get them?”

He stares off to one side, refusing to meet her gaze. “A couple of years back, I- I did this one big spell, and it kind of sent everything a bit crazy magic-wise. I’d gone from only doing basic spellwork to channeling a huge amount of power to do one of the most difficult spells there is. It didn’t help that I was all over the place emotionally after the whole- Nogitsune- thing,” he clears his throat, “and magic is linked to emotion too, which just made everything worse. Anyway, long story short, I got the tattoos, learned some gnarly meditation skills from Deaton who’s like my personal Yoda, and now I’m just your regular college student slash mage slash human member of a werewolf pack. Tada!” He does jazz hands.

Something twists in Allison’s gut. “The big spell,” she asks, “the one that kickstarted it all. Was that… me?”

His eyes meet hers and then flit away. He nods jerkily.

“Was it dangerous?”

“It was worth it.”

She wonders what it must of been like for him to have been possessed. To come round from that and discover all the people that had died while the Nogitsune wore his face.

“I wanted to fix everything,” he admits, “I wanted to go back and undo everything it did, but I couldn’t. I know, _technically_ I’m not responsible for what happened, but-” he sighs.

Allison thinks about her aunt, her grandfather, her mother, their pride, their prejudice, their anger, their tragedy. If she could go back in time now and bring back just one of Derek’s family members- if she could atone for the sins of her family in any small way-

She made a start in Beacon Hills, but it’s unfinished and it haunts her.

The waitress brings their food over, and for a while they eat in silence.

“Thank-you,” she says. “I never said at the time. At least, I don’t remember saying it, but I should have done. So, thank-you. Thank-you for bringing me back.”

He scratches his head and shifts uncomfortably. “Thank Lydia, not me. She was a woman on a mission, completely obsessed. She knocked on my door at five in the morning about six weeks after you died, with an armful of spell books, a pot full of crushed scarab shells, a ten thousand year old knife that she’d stolen from god knows where, and a vial of wendigo tears. She refused to leave until I agreed to help get the final ingredients and do the spell. She couldn’t perform it herself you see, being a banshee and all, but she wouldn’t give up.”

Allison smiles. “That sounds like Lydia.”

“She’s terrifying.”

“Not in love with her any more then?”

Stiles grins faintly. “I’ll always love her, but am I in love with her? No. That ship sailed a long time ago.”

She knows that feeling only too well. “How’s Scott?” she asks.

“Good. He’s good. Studying to be a veterinarian. He stayed in California, so he could be close to his mom and the pack.”

“Is he still with Kira?”

“Yeah.”

“They seemed good together.”

“They are.” He takes a sip of his drink. “Is it weird for you, them being together?”

She shakes her head. “It’s like you said, I’ll always love him, but I’m not in love with him, so why would I mind? I just want him to be happy.”

“Well, he seems happy. He’ll be about for the ritual, actually. The whole pack has to be there.”

“The whole pack? Including Lydia?”

“Yeah, why?”

She shrugs, and takes a sip of her drink. “I just wondered.”

 

-

 

Stiles drives the next leg of the journey and Allison sleeps for a little while, catching up on her rest after her disrupted night. When she wakes they stop to get gas and then Stiles challenges her to a game of Mad Libs, which turns out to be ridiculously fun, despite the fact there’s only two of them, although it probably helps that one of them is Stiles. By the time they reach Laramie that night, Allison’s smiled more in a few short hours then she has in two years.

They drive around for a bit until they find a motel. Then decide to go out for a walk and stretch their legs after being cooped up in the car all day. The cool night air against her skin wakes her, helps her slip out of the lethargy that comes from the monotony of constant driving. It feels good to be moving about rather than sitting down. Most of the shops are shut for the night, but it’s a pretty enough town, with a nice historic district. There are a couple of restaurants open, and they soon find somewhere to eat.

When they finally get back to their motel room, Allison realizes she's a missed call from Lydia. Stiles disappears to the bathroom to have a shower, so Allison slips out of the room and stands outside on the walkway in the cool night air to call Lydia back.

“So, how is it?” Lydia asks as soon as she picks up.

“Hi.”

“Yes. Okay. Hi. But, how is it?”

“It’s fine.” Allison leans against the paint-chipped metal railing. A gibbous moon shines bright and silver in the sky, in the distance streetlights twinkle and above her a fluorescent lamp hums and flickers fitfully.

Lydia clicks her tongue in annoyance.

“It’s good, okay? It’s fine,” Allison insists.

“Fine?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Have you talked?”

“No, we’ve been sitting in dead silence for two days.”

“ _Allison._ ”

“Fine, yes, we’ve talked.”

“And how do you feel?”

“Now? Like I’m in a therapy session.”

Lydia doesn’t deign to respond, just huffs in annoyance.

“Okay,” Allison admits, “We talked. You were right. It was good for us. I- I think he thought I was mad at him.”

“Weren’t you?”

“No. Well, maybe a little, but not about- I never blamed him for the Nogitsune.”

“Well of course not, but when _I_ tried to tell him that he wouldn’t accept it.” There’s a pause, and then she asks, "And you? Are you okay?”

“It’s tough, I guess. I never saw myself coming back to Beacon Hills. Ever. I haven’t even told my Dad that’s what I’m doing. I think he’d have a heart attack.”

“Men,” she sniffs, “so over-protective.”

“Yes,” Allison responds dryly, thinking about the look on her Dad’s face the first time he'd seen her post-resurrection. “I can’t think why.”

There’s another pause, longer this time. Allison can almost hear Lydia’s brain working. “Allison,” she says, “I wouldn’t have asked you to go back there. Not if it wasn’t important. Not if it wasn’t the only way. You know that, right?”

Allison sighs, “I know. And I want to. No, that’s a lie. I _need_ to. It’s good for me to face it, I think. Before I- before I died, I promised that the Argent name would stand for something different, something good. That we would protect people. I want to try and deliver on that. I want to stop being afraid all the time.”

Lydia’s quiet for a long time. “It’s okay to be afraid you know. You can’t be brave, if you’re not scared first, they’re two sides of the same coin. And you are brave. You’re the bravest person I know.”

Alison picks at the peeling rail with one fingernail, chipping flakes off and letting them fall to the floor. “I’m only here because you asked me to be,” she admits, “And even then, I fought it every step of the way.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I needed it. I needed you to push me. I need _you_.”

Lydia inhales sharply.

“Stiles says you’re going to be at this ritual.” Allison says.

“Yes. I’m flying back tomorrow.”

“Then I guess I’ll see you there.” She smiles to herself, “Good night, Lydia.”

After she ends the call she stands outside for a bit, enjoying the cool breeze against her skin and listening to the distant sounds of traffic.

“For fucks sake!” Stiles shouts from their room.

Allison sighs, she can hear him even with the door shut, banging and crashing about the room, talking frantically all the while. She opens the door cautiously and slips inside.

He’s pacing the room, phone in hand, his laptop open on the bed, his bag open by his feet on the floor.

“I’m going to be fine. I have a plan, okay? And I know you’re stressed. I get it. But I’m not going to fuck this up, I’m not going to get it wrong. You have to _trust_ me. When have I ever let you down?” He silent for a moment, listening intently. “Is that never mentioning the harpies again? Is it?” He gestures wildly to the room, imploring an imaginary audience to agree with him.

Allison hovers in the doorway, uncertain whether she should come in, or go back out again and give Stiles his privacy.

“Okay,” Stiles says into the phone, shoulders sagging in defeat, “Okay, you’ve made your point.” He sighs, defeated. When he speaks again, his voice has a soft, plaintive note she doesn’t recognize. “For the record though, you’re the last person on the planet I would ever want to let down, I thought you would have known that by now.” There’s an awkward pause.

His shoulders sag, and his hand drops to his side. He sighs and then slips his phone back into his pocket.

Allison busies herself folding and refolding her clothes and trying not to make it look like she’s been listening. He glances over at her. “Sorry about that.”

“That’s fine.” She desperately wants to ask, but doesn’t want to pry. She settles on, “Is everything okay?”

He shrugs, blotchy color rising up his neck and spreading across his face. “Same old, same old.”

She arches an eyebrow in a silent question and he throws himself back on his bed, one hand tucked behind his head. “You know the thing where I pine over people who are completely and ridiculously unattainable and have no interest in me? Well-” he makes a sweeping gesture, “I still do _that_ , and apparently it’s getting worse.”

“So you’re pining over someone more ridiculously unattainable then _Lydia_?”

He makes a face, “Thanks, you’re a real friend.”

“No, I mean-” She can feel herself blushing. “You’re the one who said it.”

“Because it’s true. However, for future reference, the correct response in these situations is: ‘Nobody is out of your league, Stiles. You’re completely amazing and anyone would be glad to have you, because of your inherent awesomeness.’”

“Well, maybe I could say that honestly if I knew who you were crushing on.”

“In love with,” he corrects, waving a finger in the air. “Horribly in love with.”

“So, you’re horribly in love _with_ -” she prompts.

He breathes in, and holds it, cheeks all puffed out, before finally releasing it in a long, drawn out sigh. “Yeah, I don’t want to say.”

She sighs. “Fine.”

“It’s nothing against you.”

“I know.”

“I just, I’ve never said it out loud before to anyone, and-”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me anything.”

“It’s embarrassing, you know? Not who I have a crush on, but me, I’m embarrassed for myself, and my inability to form romantic attachments to normal, attainable people, instead of preternaturally beautiful, scary, intimidating supernatural entities who barely know I’m alive.”

Allison cocks her head to one side and considers this for a moment. “So, what you’re saying is, you’re in love with Derek Hale.”

His jaw goes slack, eyes wide and offended. “How did you-?” She opens her mouth to reply but he holds up a hand in protest. “No, don’t answer that.” He stands, takes a step forward and immediately trips over the strap of his bag landing on the floor with a loud bang.

“Stiles!” she calls, trying not to smile. “Are you okay?”

He scrambles to pick himself up. “I have to go out and make a couple of phone calls, and then we are never going to talk about this again. Not the falling  _or_ the other thing. None of it. Ever.”

“Stiles,” she soothes, “I-”

He holds up a finger, “Never!”

 

-

 

He disappears after that for half an hour. When he comes back he seems less agitated, more focussed, they watch tv for a bit and then decide to turn in.

Later that night, they’re both lying in their respective beds with the lights out and Allison is trying, and failing, to sleep. She can’t get comfortable. Can’t stop the sick feeling of dread that keeps building in her stomach when she thinks about what she’s doing, where she’s going.

“It’s just so frustrating, y'know?” Stiles says, into the dark of the room.

Allison rolls onto her side so she’s facing him. “What is?”

“Derek. Me. Me being in love with Derek.”

“He seems to care about you,” she offers. “You keep saying he barely knows you exist but he calls you, from the little I’ve heard he seems to worry about you.”

“Yeah, but that’s not,” Stiles huffs in frustration. “It’s like being friend-zoned, except I’m not even sure he sees me as a friend. The most I can say for sure is that I’m pack. I’m pack-zoned. Is that a thing? I’m going to say it is.” He sniffs and there’s a rustling sound, the crinkle-crunch of a packet being opened.

“Stiles?”

“I’m eating Cheetos,” he mumbles thickly. “It’s a stress thing. A heartache thing. You want one?”

“Oh my God, you _just_ brushed your teeth.”

There’s no noise for a bit except the rustling of the bag and the rhythmic sound of Stiles chewing. She sits up in bed and draws her knees to her chest, hugging them tightly.  She’s never been one for unrequited love, not really, but Stiles has shared something with her, however unwillingly, and she wants to reciprocate, to let him know that he isn’t alone, to try and nurture the tentative friendship that’s blossoming again between them.

“I think I’m- I might have feelings for Lydia.” She’s barely admitted it to herself before now, let alone anyone else. Stiles’ chewing stops for a long moment, and Allison’s heart flutters in her chest. She doesn’t think Stiles will judge her, or dismiss her, but she feels nervous nonetheless.

There’s the sound of movement. A second later something hits her shoulder and lands in her lap. When she reaches out she can feel from the shape that it’s a packet of twizzlers.

“I’m not eating these now, Stiles,” she smiles.

“You should. Food is the best thing for a broken heart.”

“I’m not broken-hearted,” she protests.

“Well I am.”

“I know. I can smell it.”

“You can smell my heartbreak? Are you a werewolf now?”

“I don’t need werewolf powers to smell despair.”

“You can smell despair?”

“Well, at the moment it smells a lot like cheese dust.”

He snorts. “I want my Twizzlers back.”

“Not going to happen.” She buries them under her pillow, next to the hard comforting line of the knife, safe in its sheath, and sinks back down into the bed feeling lighter than she has in months.

“I can see you and Lydia you know,” he murmurs later, as Allison’s beginning to drift off. “It’s all kinds of terrifying, but I can see it.”

“Shut up, Stiles,” she mumbles, smiling into her pillow.

 

-

 

“Right,” Stiles announces the next morning, “We have to get to Elko by tonight, okay? That's the plan, but it’s only a nine hour drive, so it should be a cinch compared to what we have been doing. Team Human, right?” He holds up his fist out for her to bump.

She ignores it and eyes him suspiciously, “Why Elko?”

“What do you mean?” he asks, innocently.

“Why do we _have_ to get to Elko?”

He shrugs. “Because, I hear good things about it, Allison, good things! And besides, if we make it there tonight, it means that the journey the next day will only be about five hours.” He waves his fist at her, “Yay, team human!”

She scowls, but fistbumps him, mainly to get his hand out of her face.

“I don’t feel like you really meant that.”

“Well, I don’t feel you’re telling me the real reason we’re driving fewer hours today, just to stay in Elko.”

“I am wounded,” Stiles says, hand clutching his chest. “What do you mean the ‘real’ reason? Elko is a fabulous, and much overlooked destination. Did you know it’s been the home of the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering for the last twenty-seven years? Did you? Because I think that’s beautiful. Cowboys, Allison, cowboys reading poetry. Think about that. Think about the _chaps._ ”

“Wow! You're right," she says, dryly. "That sounds amazing. Are they gathering there this evening?”

“Well- no.”

“Tomorrow?”

“No, but-”

Allison levels him with her best unimpressed look.

“They have a motorcycle jamboree!” he tries, hopefully.

“Stiles-”

“I like the word jamboree. It’s so cheerful, don’t you think it’s cheerful? I mean, you could stick it at the end of pretty much anything and it just makes it sound a thousand percent happier. You can add it to literally anything, a wallpaper jamboree, a puppy jamboree, a jeep jamboree, a pants-”

“Stiles!”

“They have legalized brothels.”

She glares at him.

“Well you’re clearly not feeling the whole jamboree thing, I took a shot in the dark! What do you have against Elko, anyway?”

It’s hopeless. There’s no getting a straight answer out of him when he’s like this. “You’re impossible. This is the worst conversation anyone has ever had,” Allison mutters, climbing into the driver’s seat.

Stiles cocks his head to one side.“Hey, if I invite Derek to the jamboree in my pants, do you think he’d come?” He waggles his eyebrows.

“Why don’t you ask him?” Allison replies, acidly.

Stiles sniffs, “Maybe I will.”

 

-

 

It takes every ounce of Allison’s willpower not to push the Elko issue again. The thing is, she knows it’s pointless to try. While Stiles is anything but subtle, he’s stubborn as a mule, and more than capable of derailing any attempt she makes to find out what he’s up to. No, far better to let him think she’s given up on it, and then force his hand when he’s least expecting it.

An hour later, Stiles puts the Hamilton soundtrack on again, and before long they’re both singing along loudly, the disagreements of the morning long forgotten. They stop for lunch at a roadside diner, and Allison treats herself to a sundae that’s nearly as large as her head, while Stiles looks on in disbelief.

He drives most of the afternoon, and Allison spends her time alternating between texting Lydia and dozing lightly.

That evening they arrive into Elko at just past eight. It’s a small city that’s probably seen better days, there’s nothing about it to suggest why Stiles has set his heart on stopping here for the night.

“Well,” Allison says grimly, “We’re here.”

“Yup.”

They get a pizza and then Stiles drives them a little way, to a dingy looking motel on the outskirts of town. He parks and Allison gets out of the Jeep and looks around herself. The motel is a monstrosity of grey granite, with tiny little windows that make it look more like a prison than anything else. Outside a flickering pink neon sign informs that this is the Koz-E Motel. Allison has never seen anywhere look less cosy in her entire life.

“Really?” she asks, “This place? There was a Motel 6 that looked better than this about a mile back.”

“It’ll be fine,” he says. “Stop complaining.”

Allison isn’t sure about that, and she’s even less certain once they get inside the building. The walls are painted a dull, sickly green color and the whole place smells damp and musty.

The wrinkled old guy who’s manning the reception desk reeks of booze. He scowls at them as he hands them the keys to their room, and warns them not to cause any trouble.

“Trouble?” Stiles says, with a charming smile. “Us?”

The old man’s eyes narrow, and Allison drags Stiles away by his arm.

“Is this part of the Bates family franchise?” she hisses.

“It’s not _that_ bad,” Stiles mutters. “Don’t be such a snob.”

“Not that bad?” Allison repeats later, as she’s standing in the doorway to their ‘room,’ arms folded grimly across her chest.

“It isn't-”

“The window’s broken.”

“Fresh air, it’s good for you.”

“There’s a packet of chips on that bed.”

“So they left us complimentary food!”

“They’re open and half of them are ground into the carpet.” Allison points out.

“Bu-”

“There’s no lock on the door, there’s black mold on the ceiling, a godawful smell coming from the bathroom. I mean, I don’t even want to go in there. I think I just saw a mouse run under the bed, half the furniture looks like it’s being held together by duct tape  and-” She stalks across the room and peers closely at the wall. “Is that a hole? Oh my God, I can see into the next room.”

“Okay, so it’s not a high class joint.”

“It’s awful. It’s literally the worst place I’ve ever been in, and I once woke up in my own _coffin_.”

Stiles wrings his hands. “Okay, but-.”

“I am not staying here, Stiles.”

“Maybe I could see if they have a better roo-”

“No. Absolutely not. We are finding a different motel. We have been on the road for three days, I am hot, sweaty and tired. I want a decent shower and a good night sleep in a comfortable bed, before I go back to the _fucking hellmouth_ that is Beacon Hills. Which, by the way, I am only doing so you can open one of my veins, say abracadabra and finally get rid of an evil tree!” She’s kind of aware she’s shouting by this point, but she doesn’t care.

Stiles is staring at her, eyes wide like saucers. “Uh-”

“Stiles-”

“The thing is,” he says twisting his hands together, and not meeting her eyes. “The thing is- about that ritual.”

She folds her arms. “What about the ritual.”

“Well, I require certain ingredients. One in particular, that’s a _little_ hard to come by.”

And then the penny drops. “Incubus venom,” she says dully, remembering his phone call to Derek the other day.

“Yeah.” He scrubs a hand over his face.

“So that guy on the front desk.”

He flails, “What? No. No, he just runs the place. He isn’t an irresistible sex demon, _obviously_.”

“But you’re expecting one to show up here.”

He grimaces, “Well, I have it on good authority that there’s one who likes to bring their victims out to this place and y’know, dispose of them.”

“So I was right,” she throws her arms up in despair. “This is basically the Bates Motel.”

“Well, I don’t think the incubus owns the place,” Stiles says blandly.

“So not the point. Oh my God, so your plan was, what, exactly? Hope the incubus brings someone by tonight and then ask him to give you some venom?”

“No, of course not, that’s ridiculous. He’s an incubus. He’s evil. And, according to what I’ve been able to dig up from local police reports in this area, he’s probably killed about eight people in the last six months. No. I hacked into the victim’s e-mails and worked out they’d all been using the same internet dating site, more than that, they’d all been in contact with the same guy. So, obviously, I made my _own_ internet dating profile on said website. Approached him online. Flirted with him continuously for the last six weeks, you know, text messages, e-mail, phone calls etc... and then agreed to meet him here for sex. But it’s actually so that I can kill him and take the venom.”

Allison pinches the bridge of her nose. “You’re insane.”

“How else am I supposed to get incubus venom? They don’t exactly sell it at the grocery store. I can’t pop into Target and buy a pack of tube socks and a vial of sex demon juice.”

She unzips her duffle bag and pulls out her crossbow. “So, when is he going to get here?”

“No.” He grabs her wrist. “You’re not going to be there.”

“Like hell I’m not.”

“But-”

“Let go of me.”

He releases her wrist and shuts his eyes. “You’re right it’s dangerous,” he says, when he opens them again. “But I could never forgive myself if you got hurt _again_ because of me. Please, let me handle this.”

“If you think I’m letting you do this by yourself then you don’t know me at all. I’m coming with you, Stiles. We’re doing this together.” She pulls out three knives from her duffle bag and places them next to the crossbow on the bed. She should be terrified, she should be hiding in the terrible motel bathroom. This is exactly the sort of situation that she’s been dreading ever since she left Beacon Hills, but now it’s here, she’s strangely calm. Too angry to be afraid. She can do this, no, _they_ can do this, her and Stiles. Together. Team Human. They’ll be fine. She knows it in her bones.

“Oh God,” he mumbles, “Lydia is going to kill me.”

 

-

 

They set up camp in the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad motel room.

“He agreed to meet me if I booked a room at this motel.” Stiles confesses. “I was hoping that I could slip out and meet him outside once you’d fallen asleep, maybe lure him into a janitor’s closet. I didn’t count on this room being such a fucking pit. Anyway, I’ll text him, tell him to meet me here.”

Allison’s sitting with her crossbow on her knees, oiling the mechanism lovingly. “So you didn’t think I’d notice you disappearing off to battle a sex demon?”

He shrugs, “I was hoping. Truthfully, you weren’t part of the plan at all. Then a couple of weeks back Lydia kind of railroaded me into giving you a lift back to Beacon Hills. She said it would be good for us, give us a chance to reconnect. I tried to talk her out of it, I didn’t want the first time I saw you in two years to be me throwing you into another dangerous situation, but, you know Lydia.”

“I do.”

“She didn’t know, about the incubus, I mean.”

Allison offers him a wry smile. “She suspected _something_. She gave me strict instructions not to let you do anything stupid.”

He grins. “And yet here you are, joining in with it anyway.”

“Yes,” she says, “ Here I am.”

 

-

 

Two hours later they’re lying next to each other on the tacky motel room carpet, panting for breath. Stiles has a three inch gash along his left arm, and is clutching a vial of putrid looking green liquid in his right hand. Allison’s knife is slick and sticky with blood, she can just make out her crossbow peeking out from under the bed. Her left ankle hurts and she can feel her pulse in her nose, which is just _wrong_. She starts to laugh, it fizzes inside of her, bubbling up and out till she’s shaking with it.

“Fuck me, that was close,” Stiles breathes, turning his head to look at her. He’s grinning. His tattoos are still glowing a faint blue, and the room stinks with the distinctive metallic tang of ozone.

“When his jaw extended like that, all those teeth-”

“I know, I thought I was dead. I can’t believe you made that shot. Right through his shoulder, _shit._ ”

Allison grins, it _had_ been a good shot. “Second one didn’t land though.” she says, regretfully. The bolt from the second shot is still sticking out of a painting which hangs just above the bed. She staggers to her feet, legs shaking like a newborn foal and reaches up to pull it out. It’s actually embedded in the wall behind, and when she finally manages to tug it free, a chunk of plaster comes away too.

“That move you did” she says, “where you lifted him up and threw him against the ceiling, with telekinesis or whatever. That was amazing. You saved my life. I thought he was going to rip my throat out, with his teeth.”

“Pretty cool Jedi powers, huh?”

“You’re a regular Luke Skywalker,” she deadpans.

“Yeah, don’t say that to Deaton though. He gets all twitchy if I try and compare magic to the force. Starts talking about balance and neutrality and taking things seriously.”

“I’ll try and resist the urge. How’s your arm?”

He winces as he sits up and takes a look at it. “It’s been better. I’m definitely going to need some anti-venom and a shower.”

“Shouldn’t we go after him? I mean- he’s still out there, he could go after someone else.”

“He’s badly injured, I’d be surprised if he lasts the night. Especially given the knife wound he took to the stomach,” Stiles says appreciatively, eyeing the weapon in her hand. “The Mckinnon pack run this area. I’ll contact them and tell them he attacked us. Ask them to track him, they owe us a favor, anyway. The important thing is we got the venom. Now we need to get out of this place and find a motel worth actually spending the night in. There is no _way_ I’m sleeping here.” He looks around in disgust.

“Thank God. Although,” she says, looking  about herself, “Now some of that furniture is matchwood and there’s no glass in the window, somehow it... doesn’t look half as bad. It aired the room at least.”

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, right. I’m going to upgrade this slightly on my motel-o-meter. It’s now hovering somewhere between filthy fucking pit and angst-ridden den. If I squint it’s _almost_ the sort of place Derek might have considered living in three years back.”

Allison shoots him a reproachful look and Stiles holds his hands up in defense. “I’m _allowed_ to say that shit, because I’m in love with him.”

“And yet you’re not together. It’s one of life’s great mysteries.”

Stiles narrows his eyes at her. She smirks, sticking her tongue out and then limps across the room to retrieve her crossbow.

Her blood’s pumping through her veins, hands shaking from the residual adrenaline. She feels alive, really alive, for the first time in years.

 

-

 

They drive back to the Motel 6 that Allison spotted earlier and book a room. Allison’s limping badly and she has tissue wedged up one nostril to staunch the bleeding from her broken nose. She doesn’t want to think what her hair looks like, but some of it is definitely sticking stiffly to her face.  There’s blood seeping through the bandage on Stiles’ arm, and he has the beginnings of a black eye. The guy on the front desk side eyes them pretty hard as he hands over the key to their room.

“Car accident,” Allison says, by way of explanation, just as Stiles blurts out, “We were attacked by a bear.”

Allison’s head turns slowly, incredulously, and fixes Stiles with a withering gaze. “A bear?!” she mouths.

He shoots her an awkward grin and shrugs looking back at the guy on reception. “Could have been a bear, could have been a pickup truck. Who can tell at this time of night, right?” he says, taking the keys out the guy’s unresisting grip.

“Erm-” says the guy.

“Night night.” Allison calls to him, waving and dragging Stiles along with her. “A bear,” she hisses, as they round the corner.

“I’m not good at lying under pressure. Just ask my Dad! I normally just try and talk at people until they get bored and/or uncomfortable and go away.”

They drag their bags up a flight of stairs to their room, wincing all the way. “Aah, motel room, bland motel room!” Stiles announces as he opens the door. “Look at these ugly curtains, aren’t they wonderful? It’s a pallid palace, a mushroom colored mansion. Look at the bed. There’s no blood in it! And the carpet, free from mouse poop and dorito crumbs. Look at those windows, look at all that wonderful glass in them.”

“No mold either,” Allison offers, stumping across to her bed and sinking onto it gingerly.

Stiles tosses his bags on his bed and starts to root through them. He pulls out a little tub of something that looks like vaseline.

“Anti-venom,” he says, when he sees Allison watching him. He disappears into the bathroom and closes the door. She can hear the shower running as he cleans off and treats and dresses the wound properly. His face is pinched in pain when he comes back in.

“God, that stings like a motherfucker,” he says. He goes back to the bed and fumbles in his bag again pulling out a bottle of whisky. He unscrews the bottle and slugs it back.

“Oh my god, that feels good. You want some?” He offers it to her.

She hesitates for a moment and then takes it, sniffing it cautiously. Then she tips the bottle back and swallows deeply. It burns as it hits the back of throat and she coughs, eyes watering. “Oh god, that’s disgusting.”

Stiles reaches his hand out, and snaps his fingers for the bottle. She passes it to him. “It’s not so bad. It just takes the edge off the pain, y’know?” He takes another sip.

Now that the initial burn has faded, she can feel the whisky start to hit her, she feels muzzy and content at the edges. She reaches out her hand again and he passes the bottle back to her. She takes another long sip and then hands him back the bottle. “I’m gonna take a shower, I’ve got demon goop in my hair.”

She staggers to her feet and limps to the bathroom, head buzzing pleasantly, just enough that she can ignore the pain in her ankle and the throbbing in her nose.

“Don’t fall in the shower!” Stiles calls to her. “I don’t want to have to bust in and rescue you.”

“M’fine,” she calls. Still, she decides to sit in the shower and wash herself off, back pressed against the cool tiles. She doesn’t quite trust her legs to stand. It’s just beginning to hit her, she fought off an incubus. She did that. And she wasn’t afraid. If anything, she enjoyed it, and she isn’t sure how to feel about that.

When she finally makes her way out dressed in her pajamas, Stiles is lying on the bed eyes shut, mouth slack, drooling slightly, but he stirs as she comes in.

“Hey,” he says, blinking sleepily. “I worked my mojo on this. Stick it on your ankle.” He throws her a packet of Jolly Ranchers and she catches it. They’re ice cold to touch. “Hopefully it’ll act like frozen peas, or whatever.”

“Thanks,” she says, limping over to her own bed. He watches her progress with interest.

“Y’should talk to Lydia,” he says eventually, yawning. “I’ve been mulling it over and I’m pretty sure she likes you back.”

“You think?” Allison eases herself gently on to the bed and clamps the candy to her ankle.

“Yeah, just the way she talks about you. The look she gets on her face sometimes. I used to wish she’d look that way at me.”

Allison smiles, “I might drop in to see her when we get back.”

“Y’should. Speaking of which, first stop when we hit Beacon Hills tomorrow is Derek’s apartment.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I promised. I’ve got to drop the incubus venom in. He’s holding all the spell ingredients for me. He insisted.” Stiles scowls.

“Did he know about your incubus plan?”

Stiles snorts, “No! Oh God, he’s gonna be so mad when he hears about that. Mad like woah.” He blinks owlishly at her.

“Yes,” she says. “But have you asked yourself _why?_ ”

“It’s Derek. He isn’t happy unless he’s brooding over something. It’s a compulsion is what it is. His default setting is angst, and everyone else is a werewolf, so he doesn’t _need_ to angst about them. Whereas I’m the squishy human. That’s all it is. Pack-zoned. I’m telling you, it’s a thing.”

Allison tries to make sense of what he’s saying through the fog of tiredness and alcohol. “But, okay,” she says, slowly. “That doesn’t make sense, because wolves can be hurt too, and killed. I mean he’s Derek _Hale._ He knows that better than anyone.”

“I know,” Stiles says, “It makes no sense. _He_ makes no sense. It’s not like I’m powerless, but to hear him talk-” he scowls.

“Maybe,” Allison reasons, “he likes you _particularly_ . He’s so protective of you, because you matter _more._ ”

“Eh.” Stiles waves a hand dismissively. “He’s got a funny way of showing it then. He’s done nothing but nag and complain to me this entire trip, and he isn’t even here. My entire phone is filled with messages from him. Filled.”

Allison raises one eyebrow, because on the face of it, Stiles is kind of making her point for her, but Stiles shakes his head. “Nearly all of them are him bitching about how incompetent I am. Trying to double check I’m doing everything right for this ritual. I just want to scream, I’m a _fucking_ mage, I don’t need him to call me at ten o’clock at night and nag me into going over my latin pronunciation, it’s so _fucking_ patronizing.”

Allison blinks, because there’s a loose thread dangling from that statement, and she can’t resist pulling at it. “So, what happens if you pronounce the latin wrong?”

“Eh- I’m not going to pronounce it wrong.”

“Yeah, but-”

“All magic carries a risk. All of it. Especially a spell this big. I’ve always got to be careful when I do stuff like this. Always. There’s always a cost.”

“So it _is_ dangerous then.”

He clenches his fists, frustrated. “It doesn’t have to be. If I get everything right it _will_ be fine. _I’ll_ be fine.”

“And if you don’t-”

He looks away. “I need this, Allison. Do you understand? I need this- I’ve spent two years living with everything that fucking demon did in my skin and I need to do _this._ If I can make Beacon Hills even a little bit safer, than I owe it to everyone to try. I owe to myself.”

She stares at him for a long moment. She could stop this. Right now. She could refuse to take part and without her blood the spell wouldn’t work. It’s really that simple. And yet. She gets it, she knows, more completely than anyone, the need to atone for sins that are not your own.

“Okay.”

He gapes at her. “Really?”

“Yes. I believe in you. You can do this.”

“Oh. That’s-” he wipes his nose on his cuff, and looks away. “I didn’t expect you to say that,” he says, roughly.

“For the record, I think Derek trusts you too. The texts and the getting frustrated, the reminding you of everything. He sounds scared, like he knows this is bigger than you’re letting on. Maybe you should trust _him_.”

Stiles rubs his temple. “I do. God, I swear, it's just-”

“You need this for you, and you can’t let anyone stop you-” she says simply.

“I do.”

“Then do it. Do it, and do it right. Save Beacon Hills from the Nemeton’s influence once and for all and then march up to Derek and scream in his face, or kiss him, or whatever.”

“Both,” Stiles says with a wry smile. “Most of the time it’s both.”

Allison pulls the bed sheet over her legs. “This probably sounds boring to you,” she says, “but I’d try _talking_ to him first.”

 

-

 

Allison’s ankle is still sore the next morning, so Stiles is forced to do most of the driving. His arm is still wrapped in a bandage, but it’s not actively bleeding. His eye is bruised, but not swollen. “This is the only problem with being on Team Human,” he quips, hopping into the driver’s seat. “The healing happens, but not as quickly.”

“Any chance of refreezing these?” Allison says, tossing him the packet of Jolly Ranchers.

“No problem.” He catches them easily and stares down at them, concentrating. The tattoos on his arm flare electric blue. When he throws them back across to her, they’re icy cold. She leans down and presses them against her ankle.

The miles slip by quickly in a blur of mad-libs, Hamilton and debating Harry Potter. Stiles rants at length about the unethical nature of dragon heartstring as a wand core, the lack of basic numeracy and literacy taught at Hogwarts and the needless deaths of Tonks and Lupin. Allison just hates that Slytherin gets such a bad rap in the books. It turns out they both have a crush on Snape.

That takes them round to lunchtime, and by the time they’ve wolfed down burgers at a diner, they’re back on the road with only an hour and a half left to go.

Stiles gets steadily more quiet as they approach their destination. Allison can’t say she’s feeling much better. It had been one thing fighting off the incubus last night. It’s quite another returning to the place where she died. As they drive past the sign welcoming them to Beacon Hills she sees Stiles fingers grip tighter against the steering wheel.

“It’s going to be okay,” she says.

He swallows and nods jerkily. “I know.”

They round the corner to a new apartment block that she doesn’t recognize, but Stiles pulls into a parking space and switches the engine off.

“Is this-?”

“Derek’s new apartment. He moved here about a year ago. It’s pretty sweet.”

She looks up to see the front door to the apartment block swing open and Derek Hale striding toward the Jeep, his expression grim.

“Uh- I think he knows we’re here.”

Stiles’ hands make fists in the loose fabric of his t-shirt, he looks across at her nervously.

Derek taps on the glass. “Stiles, open the door.”

Stiles sighs. “Excuse me one moment,” he says to Allison, with a weak smile. He opens the door and climbs out, and she isn’t trying to listen, but the window’s cracked open, and she can hear every word they say.

“Derek,” he says, evenly. “How are things?”

“I’ve been texting you since last night. You didn’t reply.”

“I was busy sleeping and then driving.”

Derek snorts, “Asleep? Is that how you got a black eye and whatever this is?”

“Let go of my arm, Derek.” Allison leans across and glares at Derek out of the window. He isn’t looking at her though, he’s frowning down at Stiles, mouth tight and unhappy. He lets go of Stiles arm.

“What happened?”

“Incubus,” Stiles says, aiming for casual and missing spectacularly. “Here’s the venom.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the vial tossing it at Derek, who catches it easily.

Derek inhales through gritted teeth. “Stiles, that was too danger-”

“Don’t. Just stop. It’s done. I did it.”

Allison clears her throat pointedly, loud enough to be heard.

“We did it,” Stiles corrects without missing a beat. “Ally and I, the squishy humans. No werewolf help required. So you can start trusting me, okay? I know what I’m doing. I’m not some stupid kid any more.”

There’s a long silence, and she leans back, away from the window to give them the illusion of privacy. From here, Allison can’t see Derek’s face, but when he speaks again his voice is softer, unsure. “I trust you, Stiles. It was never about trust. That wasn’t the issue.”

“Really? Because it feels like the issue,” Stiles says bitterly. “It feels like you don’t have any confidence in me at all.” He takes a step back toward the car, but she can just make out Derek’s hand which reaches out quickly to stop him.

“Well it isn't. _I_ trust _you_ ,” Derek says pointedly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I read Stiles, okay? I know this ritual is more dangerous than you’re letting on. I _know._ But you keep blowing me off.” Stiles sucks in a breath, but Derek continues, stilted and awkward. “It’s- difficult- for me to watch someone I- to sit back and not- I’m not good at- I’ve lost a lot of people I-” he sighs.

“It’s fine,” Stiles says dully, “It’s okay. I’m pack. You’re looking out for pack. In a really douchey and controlling way, but I get it.”

“No. You don’t-”

“I do, Derek. It’s fine, I- mmmph,”

There’s a soft sigh.

No-one’s talking anymore.

Curious, she leans across the driver’s seat to take a look. They’re kissing. Intensely. Feverishly. In a way that suggests that they better find a room, or they might be in violation of the California penal code. _Penal_ Code _,_ she thinks, smirking to herself, then scowls. Three days in a car with Stiles and she’s internalized him, dammit. She leans back in her seat again and fiddles with her phone, trying, and failing, not to listen.

There’s the slick, wet sound of two mouths popping apart and then heavy breathing. When she looks up, Stiles is pressed up against the window, and Derek’s hands are wound round his waist. “I trust you,” she hears Derek murmur eventually. “I just need you to let me be part of it too. Let me have your back. Stop shutting me out, Stiles, _please._ ”

“Oh my god, _fine,_ ” Stiles mumbles, “just- enough talking, more kissing. Maybe invite me up to your room, you glorious, grumpy bastard.” She can practically hear him smiling.

They’re quiet again, kissing probably, and as pleased as she is for Stiles, she doesn’t want to sit in a parking lot all day and listen to them making out. It’s just awkward. So, she taps on the window and clears her throat loudly. They spring apart like scalded cats. The tips of Derek’s ears are bright red. He tries to scowl at her, but can’t seem to make it work, his eyes keep drifting back across to Stiles, and a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“So, boys, I was thinking maybe I could take the Jeep and you could pick it up later?” she suggests, smiling impishly.

“S-Sure of course.” Stiles stutters, dazed. He fumbles the keys through the window, where they immediately fall to the floor. She sighs and scrabbles around to get them.  When she looks back up Derek and Stiles are walking back to Derek’s apartment block arm in arm.

She gets out the car and limps around to the drivers side. Her ankle’s not great, but it’s okay. There’s nowhere she needs to get to from here that’s more than a ten minute drive away. She slides carefully into the passenger seat and starts the engine. She’s about to pull away when she’s startled by knock on the window, when she looks up, Stiles is there grinning at her.

She winds the window all the way down. “You forget something?” she asks.

He shrugs sheepishly, “Just wanted to say good-bye. I mean, I know I’ll see you later when I pick up the car- but-” he leans down, through the window and they hug, quick and awkward. “It was fun,” he says, into her hair, “we should do it again sometime.”

“Team human have to stick together,” she agrees seriously, as he lets her go and straightens up.

He beams at her. “That’s right, besides look at all the cool things we have in common. We’re both badass bisexuals with alliterative names who know all the words to the Hamilton soundtrack. We’re bonded for life now.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re first name isn’t really Stiles.”

“Ssh,” he says, “Don’t spoil it.”

They grin dopily at each other.

“I better go,” he says, glancing back at Derek. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Yeah,” she says, “See you later. You too, Derek.”

Derek nods solemnly at her and reaches out to take Stiles’ hand, tugging him back towards the building.

She sits in the car for a long moment, until they’ve disappeared inside. Then, on impulse, she pulls out her phone and dials a number.

It rings just once before it’s picked up. “Allison?”

She tucks her hair behind her ear and bites down on a smile.

“Hey, Lydia. It’s me. I’m back in Beacon Hills, and I was wondering, can I come over?”

 

-

 

Allison’s nervous as she parks the jeep outside Lydia’s house. She’s nervous as she hobbles her way up the front steps. She’s nervous as she rings the doorbell and waits, heart in mouth, for someone to answer. She thinks she knows where things are going between them, but she isn’t _sure._ She needn’t have worried. The smile that breaks over Lydia’s face as she opens the front door. The way she looks at her, relieved and almost _hungry_ . The way she pulls her into a tight hug that lasts just a _little_ too long. Those things. They give her hope.

Lydia takes her through to the kitchen and makes her a cup of coffee, milk, no sugar, just the way she likes it. Allison sits at the kitchen table, and cups it in her hands, feels the warmth of it seeping through into her fingers. Lydia asks about her nose, her ankle, rolls her eyes and huffs out a laugh when Allison describes the fight with the Incubus.

“I knew he was going to do something stupid,” she murmurs.

Allison shrugs, “It wasn’t stupid. He’d thought it through in a very Stilesian way.”

“With no back up.”

“He had me.”

“Yes,” she says, smiling fondly. “He did.”

Allison meets her eyes. “You have me too you know,” she says. And her voice is steady and sure, because whatever the result of this. Even if Lydia doesn’t feel the same way, she has to say it. She has to let Lydia know what she means to her.

Lydia ducks her head and smiles, soft and warm. “I know,” she says, and glances up to meet Allison’s eyes. “I’ve always known.”

“Oh,” says Allison stupidly, heart racing.

“I was just waiting for _you_ to be ready.”

Allison shakes her head and smiles because of course, _of course_ Lydia knew. The grand chess master, always ten steps ahead of every other player in the game.

“You have me,” Allison repeats, certain of it. “And I have you.”

“That’s right,” Lydia says, and leans forward for a kiss.

 

-

 

The next night the entire pack gathers at the Nemeton to perform the ritual. It’s a balmy summer evening with clear, star-strewn skies. Allison stands hand in hand with Lydia, watching as the entire pack turns out, Scott, Kira, the Sheriff, Ms. McCall, and a whole bunch of other people that she’s never met, and, in the middle of them, Stiles, looking confident and happy, preparing everything carefully, while Derek hovers watchfully at his shoulder.

She offers up her arm when the time comes. Stiles stands opposite her, he hesitates as he holds the knife out and she nods, giving him permission. She doesn’t flinch when he nicks the skin of her wrist, just watches as her blood drips slowly down onto the stump of that old, gnarled tree.

And the ritual? The ritual works.

 

_But stand brave, life-liver_

_Bleeding out your days_

_In the river of time_

_Stand brave:_

_Time moves both ways_

_In the nullifying, defeating, negating, repeating_

_Joy of life_

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments greatly appreciated. 
> 
> The title and the quote at the end are taken from Time, As A Symptom by Joanna Newsom
> 
> I am on [tumblr](http://yodas-yo-yo.tumblr.com/), come say hi!


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